“But is it true you let the populace in? Literally anyone can visit the estate for the Flower Moon?”
From the dais, Sephine levels her black-eyed gaze at the Commander. “It is a sacred night. It is not our role to deny that to anyone.”
“Including the likes of those who’ve committed treason by desecrating my father’s likeness? Lady, you would insult us.”
So, they know about the scat sculpture. It’s an Aphorain rite of passage, throwing dung at an increasingly unpopular Emperor and getting away before the city guard catches wind of it.
“An Emperor has turned his back on the Scent Keepers. Temple and province find an insult most grave.”
Silence falls over the room.
The servants beside me shift nervously, blocking my view of the dais.
Then the clash of steel rings out across the hall. Someone screams. More than one courtier rushes to the nearest door.
I rise on tiptoes, desperate to see what’s happened.
The Eraz carries his daughter from the room, Sephine following close behind. Guess the Lady Sireth had another one of her fainting spells.
But there’s another prone body on the floor.
It’s the Prince’s Shield. The silks at his side are damp, and the metallic tang that reaches my nose whispers of blood.
The other servants scatter from the hall.
My feet start moving of their own accord.
Lucidity finds me lying on a pallet. Nisai hovers at the edge of the bed, brows pinched in worry but otherwise unharmed.
Thank Esiku. I can relax.
“Out of my way!”
There goes that idea.
It’s a girl’s voice, and I turn my head on the pillow to see Issinon, Nisai’s valet, standing in her way. The intruder is short, her plain-spun robes reaching ankle and wrist, the white fabric favoring her golden-tanned complexion. Boots, rather than the sandals of the palace servants, peek out from the hem. The strap of a leather satchel crosses her chest, and a utilitarian knife is sheathed at her hip. All parts of an equation that my fevered mind can’t solve.
Issinon bristles: “How dare you issue orders to me? I am the imperial—”
“I don’t give a sniff who you are. That wound needs attending.”
“Wound? How did you—”
“The Shield’s favoring one arm, and anyone whose eyes weren’t painted on would know he’s feverish. You could wait for the Scent Keeper, but she’s attending the Eraz’s daughter. Who knows how long that could take. Lady Sireth’s turns are …”
A groan escapes me.
“Let her in,” Nisai orders.
“I think I’d prefer Esarik see to this,” I murmur.
“He’s gone on a specimen-collecting expedition. He won’t be back until tomorrow.”
Translation: He’s fleeing the attentions of half the maids in Aphorai.
Issinon stands aside and the girl bends over me. She sniffs the bandages around my chest, nose twitching like a deer testing the wind for danger. But this girl’s not prey. She’s something else. The way her amber eyes meet mine is almost wolflike. There’s something vaguely familiar about her that I can’t quite pin down.
“Take off the bandages.”
Issinon intervenes. “But surely the bleeding—”
“Is less of a risk than leaving a filthy wound to fester.”
“The wound wasn’t unclean. I checked it myself.”
The ferocity in her eyes flares. “And did you clean and file the lion’s claws before they sliced him open? You all shared a friendly conversation in the bathhouse this morning, is that it? Gossiping while your feather-maned friend had his cuticles scraped and oiled?” She keeps talking, holding the valet’s attention hostage while she slips her blade underneath the bandages and starts cutting.
I wince as the cloth dislodges from my wounds.
The girl’s eyes go flat. “I’ll need boiling water, clean linen, and needle and thread. Now.”
Issinon decides it’s in his best interest to do what she asks.
I don’t blame him.
When the supplies arrive, the girl mixes a handful of what looks like pink salt crystals into the basin. She dips a square of linen into the steaming water, untroubled by what must be scalding heat as she wrings it out. Then she upends a vial, a stream of orange droplets blooming onto the white cloth.
The girl offers me the hilt of her knife. “It’s clean.”
She doesn’t have to tell me this next part is going to hurt. I open my mouth. With surprising gentleness, she positions the hilt between my teeth.
The hot cloth sears the open wounds along my ribs, and whatever she doused it with stings like nothing else. I bite down. Hard.
The cleaning seems to take hours. The stitches seem to take longer. It’s a frantic battle to not lose consciousness. All too aware of what might be revealed if I’m incoherent, I force myself to focus on the here and now, hone in on anything but the pain.
The flutter of the girl’s breath against my skin as she works.
The faint scent of her perfume—roses?
The silver locket that keeps working its way free from the neckline of her robe, only for her to tuck it back in as if on reflex.
Afterward, she rinses off her hands. “He needs to sleep.”
“No.” My voice sounds weak even to my own ears.
Nisai steps forward. “You’re no use to me in that state. The quicker you recover, the quicker you’ll be back in action.”
The girl puts a cup to my lips. “Take your medicine,” she says, some kind of bitter irony in her tone.
How could she know I need a dose? I look frantically around the room—who else heard her words? Then sweet liquid pours over my tongue and I’m forced to swallow it along with any denial.
Sweet? It’s poppy milk, not the Linod’s Elixir I’m relying more on with each passing day. Something akin to relief washes through me.
The girl ushers everyone from the room except Nisai and two Rangers acting as guards in my incapacity, then follows, closing the door softly behind her. Nisai settles on a stool by the bed. I’m reminded uncomfortably of morning visits to his father in Ekasya.
He watches me, intent. “Something happened with you out there, didn’t it? Ash, if those claws had … Rakel says if they’d gone any deeper …”
“Rakel?”
“The person who just had no small hand in saving your life.”
“You don’t think she could tell anything, do you? Can she be trusted?”
Nisai bites his lower lip, then nods. “I believe so.”
Before I can question why, drug sleep claims me.
That night, I sleep fitfully.
Every time I close my eyes, I dream in fragments. Dark eyes brimming with pain and a distant, almost-hidden sadness. Tattooed skin that smells of sandalwood and musk. A muscled arm encircled with a prayer braid—the clash of sacred scents loud enough to wake me.
My blanket’s on the floor again, and I’m tangled in the sheet.
Then I notice another scent. One that shouldn’t be in the air.
Smoke. Not incense or cooking coals but something else entirely.
I fling the sheet aside and shrug a robe over my sleeping shift. My house sandals stay at the end of the bed. Whatever’s amiss, I’ll face it in my boots.
The halls are quiet at this late hour. I rush along, not seeing another soul on the way to the Scent Keeper’s estate quarters. I thump on Sephine’s door, but there’s no answer. I try the latch. Locked.
Where is she? She should have finished with Lady Sireth hours ago. Maybe she returned to the temple without telling me. Wouldn’t be the first time since I’ve been here that she’s vanished without a word.
Or maybe she smelled the smoke before I did? If so, where did it lead her?
I take a deep breath. Thick, pungent. Something green is burning.
The gardens.
I burst outside and leap up the terraces, catching myself just before
I fall facefirst onto a sandstone path. If there’s one thing I vow to do if I ever make it out of this scents-be-damned estate, it’s never to wear ridiculous sleeping shifts again.
It’s clear before I’m half there which of the gardens is burning. The top level is completely lost in the smoke. I blink once, twice, rubbing at my eyes. But they tell me the same thing as my nose does. I can only stand and gape.
The Flower Moon is tomorrow night, and the very plants that were set to bloom for the first time in a generation are up there.
Guards sprint through the gardens. Their shouts betray confusion and an underlying current of fear. Either the palace defenses have been compromised during the night, or someone on the inside has set alight the fifth terrace, and set it well enough that it burns from all sides.
Who would wish Aphorai’s most valuable resource destroyed?
And if they did, who would be the first to try and save it?
Sephine. She’s up there. I know it. And she’s the key to so many things I don’t yet understand about myself, my family. Things she promised to tell me in good time, as if there ever was a good time. If the Scent Keeper dies, that knowledge dies with her.
A guard I don’t recognize grabs my sleeve. “Get out of here! It’s too dangerous!”
I shake free and plunge into the smoke.
I wake in the guest chambers. The candles are lit, the tapers retaining half their length. Late evening, then.
It takes another breath to realize something’s not right. That’s not Aphorai’s beloved dragon’s blood on the air. Come to think of it, it isn’t like any incense I’ve ever smelled before.
And if even I can smell smoke, the fire must be raging.
I attempt to rise. Pain lances my side, snatching my breath. The physical agony brings its mental cousin in its wake, sending scenes of the lion hunt flashing through my mind, stark images like lightning flares in the night.
I press one hand to the bandages at my ribs and use the other to push myself up the pillows.
“Nisai?”
He must be intent on his books again.
“Nisai?” I call a little louder.
There’s no answer. Maybe he’s meeting with his uncle? Or perhaps Esarik has returned from his expedition?
Gritting my teeth, I cast aside the blankets and swing my feet over the edge of the bed. A quick glance confirms the wound has been dressed recently—the linen free of the stains of healing—but I’m otherwise naked. My cheeks warm despite myself. Who saw to me while I slept? Was it her?
The chair where Nisai sat at my bedside is empty, other than the clothes draped over it. Someone has oiled my leathers, leaving behind a distinct note of cedar. It’s not displeasing.
I struggle into my trousers. Between my wounds and my bandages, I soon realize my vest isn’t an option. I throw it down and shuffle into the antechamber. Two Aphorain palace guards are stationed outside the door. The youngest does a double take at my ink-covered torso.
“Where is the Prince?”
The older guard shrugs, pointing vaguely up the corridor. “He left some time ago.”
“Who’s with him?” I demand. “Rangers?”
“Said he had some urgent diplomatic business to attend to. We left him to it.”
The younger guard nods emphatically. “We wouldn’t want to be questioning the First Prince, no, sir. We’re loyal to the Empire, you see.”
Simpletons.
“Step aside.”
“Ah, Shield, sir, First Prince says you’re to rest—”
“Out. Of. My. Way.”
The smoke gets thicker as I stumble through the gardens. It clogs my nose and throat and burns my eyes, setting them to streaming tears. Even when I force myself to keep them open, it’s hard to discern hedge from wall, fountain from statue.
I keep my sleeve over my nose and mouth, trying to breathe shallowly so I don’t take too much acrid air into my lungs.
Up close, I realize this isn’t any ordinary fire. There’s a signature at its base. Krilmair oil. Used when you need to burn something that won’t catch or stay alight with any run-of-the-mill flammable. Only thing is, it leaves a telltale scent behind the char and burn.
This fire was no accident.
A figure appears, indistinct and wavering in the heat and soot. It’s not until he’s closed to a few paces that I recognize the Shield. Either he’s stupid or fool stubborn. Strict bed rest, I’d ordered. Yet here he is.
And he’s not wearing a shirt. At another time I might have found that amusing.
He breaks into a shuffling run when he sees me, one hand clutched to his side.
“What in the sixth hell do you think you’re doing?”
“I was about to ask you the same thing.” His deep, rumbling voice rolls question and accusation into one.
“I don’t know. Sephine, she—”
“The Prince?” He hunches over a little, grunting in pain. He shouldn’t be here, he should be back in his chambers.
“He’s not with you?”
“I wouldn’t be asking if he was.”
I squint out over the smoking terraces. The ancient plants that haven’t bloomed for a generation, that would have burst into bud and flowered when both moons went dark this time tomorrow. Now their last flowering is the pall of smoke unfurling skyward.
Guards circle the garden now, buckets in hand, their shouts growing more desperate. If Sephine’s not trying to save the dahkai along with the guards, where is she? What could be more important to her? Who could be more important?
The Shield sizes me up, calculating, as if he can see my thoughts.
He charges toward the flames.
Rancid reeking rankness. He’s lucky to be on his feet, given the amount of poppy milk I gave him last dose. There’s every chance he’ll keel over in there.
Then his death will be on my hands.
I’m not about to let that happen.
I follow him into the heart of the fire.
I tear a strip from the hem of my nightdress. Pressing my sleeve to my nose again, I grab the Shield’s arm and motion for him to do the same. Then I turn my back on the source of Aphorai’s liquid gold. It’s too late for the dahkai.
There’s no sign of the Scent Keeper.
Think, Ana. Think.
Since Sephine made me her servant, I’ve learned very little about the person behind the Scent Keeper’s mask, if there even is one. But I’ve noticed her strolling the coiled paths of the labyrinth in the next sector. It’s as good a place to start as any.
I risk taking my sleeve away for a breath, except I can’t smell anything but smoke and char.
I’ll have to get closer.
The coniferous hedges have caught alight now. Their sap is a natural explosive, I think. As if on cue, a nearby trunk bursts apart with a crack. I drop into a crouch as splinters and coals spray in every direction.
Something stings my cheek. My fingertips come away wet.
I gesture to the Shield to keep low as we head toward the next garden over. It’s choked with smoke, but the manicured lawns and swirling paths of the labyrinth are unscathed. For now. Something’s out there, though: an indistinct shape on the grass. I move closer, careful to avoid the glowing embers amid the ash fall.
There. The outline of an arm against the lawn. Black feathers gleam for a fleeting moment in the firelight. I rush forward, dropping to my knees beside the Scent Keeper’s prone form.
“Sephine!”
There’s an answering groan. I take her by the shoulder and manage to get her onto her side. “What happened?”
She tries to speak, but it’s interrupted by a cough. “It was too strong,” she says, voice hoarse between ragged breaths. “Too quick. Too much …”
Then the Shield is there. “What was?” He’s clutching at his bandages from that ridiculous lion hunt. “A beast?”
I shake my head. Even in the smoke-filled night, I’d see blood. And if I couldn’t see it, I’d smell it.
“The dahkai? The guards will take care of it.” There’s no point in telling her it’s a lost cause.
She coughs again, this time spitting blood. Dark blood. Internal bleeding, from somewhere deep. And there’s a faint whiff of … Rot? Or just something rotten? Whatever it is, she needs care, and quick.
There would be some sort of justice in leaving her here, leaving her to die from circumstance, just like she left my mother.
But I’m nothing like Sephine.
“We’ve got to get you out of here.” I crouch down farther and lift her arm, trying to prop it across my shoulders.
“No. The stars have seen my fate.” She lifts a trembling hand, though whether it’s to point at the stars or to grab at my night shift or something else, I can’t tell. “Save the Prince.”
The Shield leans closer, wincing. “Where is he?”
More dark liquid seeps from the corner of her mouth. On reflex, I dab at it with my sleeve. She turns her head away. Following her gaze, I can barely make out a prone form in the smoke, the deep purple robes serving as camouflage in the darkness.
The Shield curses and lurches to investigate.
Sephine rolls onto her back, reaches up, and grabs my locket with surprising strength, yanking my face close to hers. “I could only slow its progress. Heed the starwheel. When the lion wears the lost crown, he’ll not live through the night. Follow the way of the stars. Find the order … Asmudtag … in …” The hand gripping my locket goes limp and falls.
“The darkness will bloom again,” she murmurs, closing her eyes. Her chest falls with a sigh and her fingers open. A tiny vial rolls from her palm and onto the manicured lawn. It’s made of some sort of glass, its sides faceted like a cut jewel.
I feel Sephine’s wrist for a pulse.
Nothing.
Check for breath.
Nothing.
No. This can’t be. Scent Keepers don’t die.
But Sephine is gone.
And her secrets have gone with her.
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